Rick Mofina - Six Seconds

“Yes.”

Maggie jotted the details on the back of the page Stacy Kurtz had given her, folded it and put it in her pocket and returned to work, never noticing that the man Louisa had called “the creep” had been standing an aisle away in the magazine section.

He’d had a direct line of sight to Maggie.

During her phone call, he’d been reading The Econo mist.

Or so it seemed.

Calgary, Alberta, Canada

It was time to face his crime.

As Graham drove south he looked west beyond the skyline to the jagged peaks silhouetted against the setting sun, standing there like a monumental truth.

Hang on, he told himself.

He made good time escaping the fringes of the me tropolis and its cookie-cutter suburbs. Some forty minutes south, he exited Highway 2, taking a paved, two-lane rural road that twisted west into the foothills.

His pulse quickened as he mentally counted to what awaited him.

One kilometer, two, three, four, five…

He tightened his grip on the wheel then pulled onto the shoulder and stopped.

He needed to do this. Confront it, even if it pierced him.

He turned off the ignition, got out and walked to the site.

A plain white wooden cross marked the spot where Nora took her last breath.

Where he’d killed her.

A car hurtled by, kicking up a gust that nudged him closer to the roadside memorial for her. Nora had taught the fourth grade. They’d met when he was in Traffic and had come to talk to her class about safety.

Safety.

He pushed away the irony and touched the cross. Caressed its smooth surface. It had been erected by her students who’d adorned it with artificial flowers, pic tures, small stuffed toys and printed notes protected in clear plastic sandwich bags.

We love you and we miss you, Mrs. Graham, one said.

We’ll be together with the angels, said another.

The epitaphs pulled him back to that night.

They’d gone to a Flames game because they’d needed some time together. And between them, she was the bigger hockey fan. He’d been working a lot of double shifts on a joint-forces operation with Calgary city police. A stress-fest, costing him sleep. He’d yawned throughout the game.

“I can drive if you’re too tired,” she’d offered as they crawled with the postgame traffic from the parking lot.

“I’m good.”

It took longer than usual to get to the expressway.

From there it was fine. It was a clear night. No snow. The roads were dry. The heater was blowing a gentle current of warm air to offset a slight chill. It felt so good being with her. It was tranquil and as they left the city Graham fell quiet.

“You okay there, buddy?” she asked.

He yawned again.

“Yup.”

As they got off the highway, heading into the foot hills and deeper into the darkness, she gazed up at the constellations, naming them for him.

“Cassiopeia, Cepheus…”

Her soft voice, the hum and warm air relaxed Graham.

“Ursa Minor, Draco, Ursa Major…”

A perfect moment and it lulled him to surrender to his exhaustion.

The last things he remembered-

“DANIEL!”

The car was vibrating, her hand seized his arm.

“DANIEL!”

They’d gone off the road. He’d tried to correct it but overreacted, turning the wheel too sharply. The car rose, then they were airborne, rolling over and over, pave ment, grass, metal crunching, glass breaking, dirt, lights and stars, all churning into nothingness.

He’s on the ground looking at their overturned car, its headlights pointing in odd directions. He smells gasoline. The rad’s hissing. He sees her in her seat with the deployed air bag, head turned all wrong, like a bad joke, like a rag doll.

Someone is screaming.

Screaming her name.

It’s him.

Everything blurs.

Emergency radios, sirens and he’s on a stretcher moving fast.

So fast.

Something’s pounding the air.

It’s deafening.

He’s flying. Ascending. Glimpsing strobing lights below. A galaxy of suburban lights wheel beneath him.

Next, a powerful antiseptic smell. Starched bed linen against his skin. He’s alive but not right. Sore but numb. A tube connects his arm to a bag of liquid on a pole. Faraway, hollow voices echo his name.

“Mr. Graham?”

He’s not dreaming.

“I’m Dr. Simpson. You’ve been airlifted to our hospital. You’ve been in an accident, Mr. Graham. You’ve got broken ribs, lacerations and a mild concus sion. Nod if you understand.”

His head brushes against the pillow.

“Your wife was hurt badly. Her injuries were extreme. I’m very, very sorry.”

Graham’s heart slams against his chest.

“The paramedics did everything they could but she never regained consciousness. Her neck was broken. Her internal injuries were massive. I’m so sorry.”

The earth quakes.

“And the baby.”

Baby? What baby? It is a mistake. It is a dream because they don’t have a baby.

“She was three weeks along and may not have known she was pregnant.”

A blood rush roars in his brain, the universe cracks and darkness coils around him, crushing him with the realization. HE’D FALLEN ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL AND KILLED HIS WIFE AND THEIR UNBORN CHILD.

Now, all he had to keep him alive was his guilt.

It’s why he’d gone to the mountains. To distribute the last of Nora’s ashes then use his gun to be with her and their baby.

What else was left?

Standing there alone in the prairie night, the burden of his guilt forced him to his knees. Aching for her, he gripped the cross. “Nora, I am so sorry. Forgive me. Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me what I am supposed to do now?”

He searched the stars for the answer. It was delivered on a gentle breeze, resurrecting what had happened when he’d gone into the river to save the girl.

He’d heard Nora’s voice.

“Keep going, Daniel.”

This was his answer.

This case would be his redemption because his wife’s voice was not the only one guiding him.

“Don’t-daddy.”

So much was garbled and drowned by the river. He didn’t comprehend all of what Emily Tarver was trying to tell him. But now he believed in his gut that the key to unlocking this tragedy was in her dying words…and any break that heaven would allow.

Graham’s cell phone rang.

“Corporal Graham, this is Prell. Just spoke with FIS. Just wanted to advise you that they pulled clear latents off the Tarver vehicle and got hits through CPIC. We have a name. Are you ready to copy?”

Graham hurried back to his car.

Bonita Hills, California

Maggie battled to keep her hopes in check. As she threaded her way through the freeway traffic, her stomach tensed.

Would her nightmare ever end?

Would she ever see Logan and Jake again? Where were they?

Each day had passed without news. Nothing from police. Nothing from the courts. Nothing from the sup port groups, Logan’s doctor, Logan’s school or the private investigator. Nothing from her amateur Internet search ing.

Not a word from Jake or Logan.

Nothing but deepening anguish.

Dammit, why did Jake do this?

Maggie searched the traffic in vain for answers.

Whatever it was, maybe Jake just needed time to sort it all out. Maggie consoled herself with that explanation, hoping with all her heart that Madame Fatima would work a miracle tonight.

But who was she?

Maggie had called Stacy Kurtz, who’d pressed her police contacts for more information, urging Maggie to keep what she’d learned confidential.

The woman was known as Madame Fatima Soleil. She’d descended from French gypsies who’d fled per secution in Senegal and roamed Europe in the early 1900s. Her family tree branched into northern Quebec and Louisiana’s bayous.